I was being facetious. It's definitely one of ours.
* * *
A dwarf runs across a bridge. Behind him is a sight he thought he would only ever see in his darkest nightmares.
The dwarf is a soldier. That does not matter to him now. He had relinquished all claim to pride or courage the moment those
things had appeared over the horizon. Now, all he cares about is getting safely across the drawbridge before it closes, sealing his fellow dwarves safely inside the fortress and, incidentally, sealing him outside with
them. For this soldier, fighting was no longer a conceivable option -- the caravan guards had been torn to shreds, and they had the benefit of decent protective gear. All that is left is escape -- the chance to hopefully live to fight another day, as the cliche goes. He runs, trying to block out the agonized screams of the caravanners, the screeches of the
thing chasing him, and the frantic beating of his own heart. At this, he fails.
The bridge shifts sickeningly beneath the soldier's feet, and suddenly the world is upside-down. A few moments later, the soldier picks himself off the dirt, looks up, and realises that he had landed on an outcropping of some sort. His heart sinks; there doesn't seem to be any way to get down. Then, the soldier realises, hardly daring to believe it, that this meant that the
things didn't have any way to get up. He sighed in relief. He was safe. The others would likely realise he was missing and send miners to burrow him back inside.
Something screeches. The soldier turns around, his blood turning to ice. The
thing is there with him. It looks at him, rage burning in its eyes. The soldier looks around himself wildly. There is no escape.
He takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and charges, praying his death would be quick.
Several moments later, the Spawn stands over its fresh kill, dwarven blood dripping from the gash on its torso, and lets out a victory cry.